


Preparations Made

by MaplePaizley



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Incest, Hélène's moral compass isn't great, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 15:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11466492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley
Summary: Dolokhov stretched out languidly, head pillowed on Hélène’s breasts, glancing up at her through his long eyelashes. She smiled back lazily, giving him a heavy-lidded stare as she slowly stroked his dark hair. Pierre was away somewhere, and the previous night had been full of some rather creative exertions.Hélène proposes a vacation. Dolokhov is less than amused.





	Preparations Made

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom, but I am super in love with Hélène. Any feedback is really appreciated! :)

Dolokhov stretched out languidly, head pillowed on Hélène’s breasts, glancing up at her through his long eyelashes. She smiled back lazily, giving him a heavy-lidded stare as she slowly stroked his dark hair. Pierre was away somewhere, and the previous night had been full of some rather creative exertions. Hélène was a woman, he decided, who was meant to be seen as she was currently- indolent, wearing nothing, or close enough that it didn’t matter, her generous mouth curved into a gentle smile. It was just the two of them in bed. Anatole had been rather insufferable of late, ever since he had set his sights on the Rostova girl, and Dolokhov had loudly proclaimed himself tired of it. Hélène had been especially insatiable lately (likely, Dolokhov suspected, to ignore that Anatole was fantasizing about another woman), and in the spirit of atonement and reconciliation, Anatole had offered them a few rounds alone with each other. As much as he missed the boy, once in a while it was nice to have Hélène to himself. She was an exceptionally wily lover, prone to mercurial fancies and witty little bedroom games that left him reeling, but very much besotted. Very unlike Anatole, who was a deeply satisfying, but rather formulaic bedmate.

 

Hélène stopped stroking his hair momentarily, electing instead to give it a sharp tug to indicate that he should look up at her. Dolokhov stifled a small chuckle. _His beautiful, impatient, spoiled little countess._ “Darling” she murmured softly. “How would you fancy a vacation?”

 

“Wouldn’t your husband notice your absence?” Dolokhov quipped mildly.

 

Hélène glared at him. “Should I be concerned that your first thought is for Pierre?”

 

Dolokhov grinned. “Only thinking about practicalities, Yelenka.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“Very well, _Princess_.”

 

“Oh Dolokhov, you know I haven’t been a princess in a very long while.”

 

“So it’s ‘Dolokhov’ now?” He breathed challengingly, rolling over, so that he was leaning over her.   


Hélène sniffed haughtily. “Whatever do you mean?”

 

Dolokhov batted his eyelashes, and twisted his mouth into a coquettish pout, taking on a high-pitched voice. “’Oh Fedya, right there’” he crooned. “’Fedya, _harder_. Fuck me, Fedya’.”

 

Hélène swatted him playfully. “You’re an animal.”

 

He hummed cheerfully. “No arguments to the contrary.”

 

“And you haven’t answered my question. What if we went away? The three of us with no hiding, no sneaking around…”

 

Dolokhov paused to consider. The thought of spending a few days holed up somewhere with both of the Kuragins was certainly an enticing idea, but not one without its risks. “I’ll remind you that you have a less than sterling reputation, Countess”, he smirked. “Think of how it would look were you to be spotted leaving town with one of your purported lovers.”

 

“There’s nothing suspicious about a sister travelling abroad with her brother”, Hélène said loftily. “And what am I to do if Anatole decides to drag along one of the wastrel drunkards he calls friends?”

 

“Where to?” he pondered out loud. “Petersburg?” Hélène let out a muted scoff in response, as he slowly ran his finger up her arm. “Alright no Petersburg then.” He leaned up to kiss her shoulder. “Rome? We could both do with some sun.” She muttered something as he slowly began to work his way up her shoulder to her neck, stopping to playfully brush her collarbone with his rough stubble. He sucked a dark bruise into the elegant column of her neck, reaching up to nip her earlobe. “How about Paris, _cherie_?” He purred, grinding against her sharp hips none-too-gently. “You would look beautiful in Paris.” Hélène moaned softly as he dipped his head, leaning down to press wet, open-mouthed kisses on her breasts. Dolokhov smirked as he propped himself up on an elbow, trailing his other hand down her long supple body.

 

“I was thinking Poland”, Hélène gasped.

 

Dolokhov froze, glaring at her as he rolled back onto his side. “Why Poland, Hélène?” he asked softly, dangerously.

 

Hélène met his eyes unblinkingly. “Anatole wants to elope with Natalie Rostova. He needs witnesses for the wedding that will deny everything when they return.” Dolokhov turned away, but Hélène reached up to cup his cheek. “I thought we could make it fun. The girl is already in for a scandal, we may as well educate her while we’re there.”

 

“I can’t believe you want me to drop everything to help your brother with his new little plaything.”

 

“She’s quite charming” Hélène mused playfully. “One could believe that Anatole is beginning to develop a semblance of taste.”

 

“Charming or not, she’s nothing but trouble”, Dolokhov snapped irritably.

 

“You’re being dramatic” Hélène chuckled.

 

“I am _not_ , Hélène”, Dolokhov growled. “The Rostovs are an old, important family. What do you suppose they’ll say when they find out that Anatole has stolen away their heiress?”

 

“They won’t say anything. Anatole and the girl will come home, and the three of us will say that nothing happened. The Rostovs won’t want everyone prying into their daughter’s illicit affairs, and everything will blow over quickly.”

 

“Hélène, this will never work.”   


“I trust Anatole.”

 

“I’m worried about you. Anatole can pull this kind of stunt off. This could seriously hurt you.”

 

“It will be fine.”

 

“It doesn’t _bother_ you?” Dolokhov snarled. “That he wants to fuck another woman, that he’s willing to ruin you, your reputation to do it?”

 

“Of _course_ it does”, Hélène cried. “You have _no_ idea how much it does. But what is there to do?”

 

“You could stop enabling him”, Dolokhov said in an intentionally measured tone. “If he’s going to act like a fool, let him face the consequences. Alone.”

 

“And that won’t change a thing”, Hélène hissed. “He will do what he wants, and there will be collateral damage because that is who he is.”

 

“But you don’t need to hurt yourself to protect him.”

 

“It’s all I can do for him”, Hélène snapped. “He’s so needy, so desperate to prove that none of this affects him. _I_ married Pierre, _I_ hurt him first. If he needs the little Rostov girl to move on from me, how can I deny him?”

 

Dolokhov sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt, and reached for her to pull her into his chest, stroke her hair. “Hélène, _dorogaya…”_

 

“Don’t touch me”, she spat.

 

Dolokhov tried for a gentler tone. He was not good with words. He wanted nothing more to forget this entire, ridiculous affair with Natasha Rostova, roll Hélène over and love her body until she screamed, perhaps calling on Anatole to come help him when they were ready for another round. “I understand, Hélène”, he murmured softly. ,

 

“You don’t”, she said simply.

 

“I can’t love him in public either”, Dolokhov reminded her. “I know that I’ll never be able to, but that doesn’t change the wanting.”

 

She glanced at him skeptically. “I would have thought that we’d done enough to fix your _wanting_ for a few hours at least.”

 

“I want so much more than that with both of you”, Dolokhov breathed. “I want to introduce you to people as mine, I want to listen to you bitch, and moan, and squabble. Lord help me, I want to pick you both flowers, just to do it.”

 

“Oh do stop being sentimental, Fedya”, Hélène sighed, albeit with rather less venom. “It really doesn’t suit you at all.”

 

He tried again to pull her against him, glad when she didn’t resist. He wrapped his arms around her, positioning her head against his chest, not saying anything in order to allow Hélène to concede with as much dignity as possible. Finally, he felt her relax against him, and he loosened his grip slightly, shifted in order to get comfortable. He took the opportunity to bury his nose in her hair, inhaling her smell of musk and chai tea, and oddly, rosewater; a scent that had always seemed incongruously sweet for Hélène. He wondered haltingly what life would have been like had he married her, not that it ever would have happened; at best, her father saw him as a poor wastrel, not worth wasting Hélène’s Kuragin pedigree on. Would they still have been lying together, taking comfort in each other’s company? He admired her, certainly. Her quick wit and audacious ambition were a match for his own, and he’d yet to find someone else as adept at verbal sparring. Her beauty was unmatched, even if Anatole’s features were more striking. He loved her in his own way, he supposed. He felt a fierce passion for her, a tenderly protective impulse, both undercut by a possessiveness that was surprising and more than a little unwelcome. Every time that oaf Bezoukhov touched her, Dolokhov was filled with near-homicidal rage, the same helpless anger that he could see reflected in Anatole’s eyes, as much as the other man tried to hide it with his debonair lifestyle and naturally sunny disposition. At least, Dolokhov mused bitterly, unlike Anatole he was allowed to be Hélène’s lover rather publicly. The two of them were far from subtle, and even if he didn’t have the title and rights that Pierre did, there was little to stop him from resting his hand on the small of her back, brushing a kiss against her throat, and publicly asserting his claim on her. That was an option that Anatole didn’t have; another reason, Dolokhov supposed, that the young Rostov girl was so appealing. Naïve and sweet, Natasha could never have been mistaken for Hélène, but she and Anatole were both desperate enough for something meaningful and attainable to gravitate towards each other.

 

He sighed softly, longing for the days before he was too intoxicated with these two selfish, spoiled aristocrats to have a modicum of common sense. “So Poland?”

 

Hélène burrowed deeper into his chest. “Mm-hm”, she hummed.

 

“And what will you and I do”, he mused out loud, “while the boy is distracted with his new pleasure?”

 

Hélène looked up to meet his eyes with a feral grin that was all the more arousing for how out of place it looked on her delicately featured face. She laughed that charming laugh that she used to get what she wanted, and raked a nail down his bicep thoughtfully. “We shall have to be rather creative”, she told him seriously.

 

“Is that so?” He smiled wolfishly.

 

She shrugged. “There’s one less of you to satisfy me. I’m not entirely sure you’re up to the task of performing for two, Dolokhov.”

 

Dolokhov moved lightning-fast, rolling over her, and trapping both of her thin wrists in one of his hands. “Careful, Countess”, he smirked. “That sounds like a challenge.”

 

“Good”, she breathed. “It was meant to.”

 

Dolokhov grinned, and leaned down to kiss her, brutally passionate. There was no doubt in his mind that this plan was fated for complete disaster. In the moment though, he could hardly seem to care.


End file.
